A quinze ans, au lycée, j'ai entendu mentionner la forme japonaise de l'haïku, "petit poème extrêmement bref visant à dire l'évanescence des choses" (wikipédia). Fascinée, je me suis demandé si, dans la même sorte de tercet court, on pourrait faire tenir une histoire. J'ai essayé. Puis, quelques années plus tard, on m'a offert "La tristesse du petit enfant huître et autres contes" de Tim Burton. Ce ne sont pas des haïkus, mais quelque chose de leur esprit est là : la forme très courte, la légèreté, l'absurdité, l'évanescence, la force étrange qui se dégage de ces mots comptés... J'ai continué à m'essayer à cette forme de fictions ultra-courtes. Des "croquis" d'écrivain, en somme, qui me servaient plus d'entraînements et bases de nouvelles un peu plus longues que d'histoires "montrables" en elles-mêmes. Et puis j'ai relu les contes de Tim Burton, et d'autres "micro-conteurs", comme Lisa Falzon, se sont lancés. Le temps est peut-être donc venu... J'ai alors ressorti de petits cahiers que j'avais commencé à noircir, laissé venir d'autres historiettes, et voilà, l'aventure de ces Carnets absurdes est lancée !
When i was fifteen, in high school, I heard about the haiku, "extremely short little poem to tell the evanescence of things" (Wikipedia). Fascinated, I asked myself if, in the same sort of short-triplet, someone could tell a whole story. I tried. Then a few years later, i was given "The sadness of Oyster Boy and Other Stories"by Tim Burton. This is not haiku, but something close : the very short form, lightness, absurdity, evanescence, the strange power that emerges... I continued to try my hand at this form of micro-fiction. I considered them more frequently at new bases for longer stories than at real printable fictions . And then I re-read the short stories of Tim Burton -- and other "micro-tellers, " as Lisa Falzon, published their stories on their blogs. It's maybe time i launch myself. That's the aim of these "absurd fictions". Very often i will write in french, sometimes in english as well. I apologize for my numerous mistakes, i understand several languages but i don't speak very fluently :o)

dimanche 20 février 2011

The lovers

Her name was Jane, and his name Tom.
He smiled at her, she laughed, dippy
They made each other so happy
Their smile looked so much like the sun
Everything for them was such fun
Each moment was such a candy
That they swallow time as jelly.


 Beautiful Jane, my sweetheart Tom,
 He crooned to her, she sang softly,
 All the time he complimented her, in return she revered him deeply,
Their love sounds like a heart murmur...
 A sort of disease ? Could it occur ?
 Unfortunatly yes, it did. One day the passion above Tom's head
Burnt the oxygen around him : he suffocated and felt dead.

And around Jane, the love died out
She coughed, shelled out,
Tried to escape, but realized that her scorched love's sticky fingers
Stopped her race

She had to kneel down as if she for the last time worshiped him
And she snatched Tom's hands with her teeth


Years later, when remember him,
Consumed and stark, gripping her feet
The past love just looked like a grim
 And she didn't feel any pain

Or maybe sort of phantom limb.
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